


Sinking

by mytimehaspassed



Category: SLC Punk
Genre: M/M, Necrophilia, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-07
Updated: 2010-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before this lawyer thing, when you had colored hair and ripped jackets and you were living in that shitty little apartment with Bob and you never even knew who Armani was, before the funeral and before Sandy and Trish and maybe even before you even cared about selling out, before all that, there was Bob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinking

**SINKING**  
SLC PUNK!  
Steve-O/Heroin!Bob  
 **WARNINGS** : post-movie; necrophilia

  
Before this lawyer thing, when you had colored hair and ripped jackets and you were living in that shitty little apartment with Bob and you never even knew who Armani was, before the funeral and before Sandy and Trish and maybe even before you even cared about selling out, before all that, there was Bob. Your friend, Heroin Bob, your best friend, he’s always been there. It’s just natural.

Asleep, he looks so calm. Your feet tucked under you, you’re sitting back on your haunches and you press your palms flat against the cold planks of wood in front of you. Asleep, here, on the dirty mattress and piles of shit, piles of empty beer cans and discarded magazines, here, he looks so beautiful. With the light coming in gloomy from the windows, here, asleep, the dried tears on your cheeks, the blue tint to his skin, you want to press your lips to his and you want to call him an angel.

So beautiful, his eyes shut, his lashes still against his cheeks, still, so still, here, Bobby, he’s cold and still and looking so great, so beautiful, but you can’t go there, not now. Not when your breath is still hitched, your voice still croaking, and you want to scream or something, hit someone, because why do you deserve this? Why does this have to happen to you when you didn’t even do anything? When Bob was so fucking good?

Your head bowed, your fingers curl against the floor, curl into fists, and you want to scream so loud, just scream and scream and scream, but you can’t because you’re so numb right now, you’re so fucking calm. Just like him. Like Bob. Your fingernails scraping the splinters of wood until they’re jagged and you’ve made your mark, your teeth clenched so hard your jaw starts to ache and the tongue caught in between starts to bleed. The first explosion of copper in your mouth, and you don’t really taste it. Not now.

Your fingers digging, you clutch Bob, Bobby, Heroin Bob, your fucking best friend, you clutch him to your chest and you rise up on shaky legs. This heavy burden and your fucking chicken muscles, you stagger as you climb up the stairs. The weight of the world on your shoulders, your world, you sway back and forth dangerously.

When you reach your mattress, you lay him down slowly. He’s already stiff with rigor mortus, already turning colder, and you’re pushing him back against the pillows and blankets and trying to get his clothes off and oh he’s so fucking cold and it’s, “Hold on, Bob. I got you. Hold on. I’ll get you warm.”

And it’s like this.

Your fingers fumbling, you’re kissing the skin you uncover, lower and lower, puckering your lips and going, “Fuck. Fuck.” You’ll get him warm. You can make him as warm as you are, flushed with fever and arousal. Flushed. “Fuck.”

The fucking angel, Bob, your best friend, the beautiful angel, Bobby, he’s so fucking cold, but you can make him warm. Because before everything, before fucking everything, there was you. And there was him.

It’s just natural.


End file.
